


Sweet sweet Oxygen

by silver0wings



Series: Merc' the Jerk [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Abuse, Asthma, Murder, its non graphic murderer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: While out on a job, Mercury finds himself unable to get a good breath in and has to improvise.





	Sweet sweet Oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> merc's semblance is air control. fight me. Sorta a sequel to "Her" and Dear Precious Daddy.

This time's just like the last. All dressed up in fancy clothing, but this time "She" isn't here, not at all. 

This time when dad explained what we'd be doing, who needed to get dead and what the stakes were, I'd suggested that maybe someone had gotten suspicious of the father daughter pair that always ended up at the scene of a crime. 

He laughed, but agreed. 

I knew he was right to laugh, we always looked different, we were so careful to play the roles needed for whatever the situation was, but there was a chance. There was always a chance of someone catching onto the worlds greatest assassins schemes and plots. 

This time, I found myself in a suit and tie, groomed to be a miniature version of my father. 

I think I'd rather have this. The short hair, the flat chest, the permission to walk like I owned the place instead of light steps and ditzy small talk. Cocky and playful suits me so much better. 

This still isn't Me, because I have to still be a stupid rich kid at a stupid formal social event, but it's one step closer. Closer to who I am when I'm not acting, when I'm myself. Fun as dress up is, I've always been happier not pretending, so a role closer to the truth is better. 

But if I'm better at this role than that other one, how come my lungs have been tight all day?

It started back at home. Dad had grabbed this photo album off a rarely used top shelf, and this tight feeling started. Then it was easy enough to ignore, just a quick throat clearing and cough was enough to make it manageable. 

I'm good at ignoring discomfort. 

I've been ignoring it since we got here, ignoring the way my throat keeps getting tighter, and how each breath felt like hell. I couldn't just duck out or let anyone know something was up, that could cost us the hit. 

If I bail, the game's over. 

So I keep on. Talking and laughing and joking with a few others. I wonder if this is what having friends is like, or if it's different. 

I think I want oxygen more than I want friends. 

God, just let me get a good breath down and I'll be good. 

Please. . . 

Air doesn't come. I excuse myself, damn near choking on my way to find a drink. Are my lips blue? Face pale? Hands shaking? Can't let this show. Can't let anyone know that I can't breathe. 

The drink doesn't help cool the burn or uncoil the tightness in my airways. What even is this? Can't be poison, unless dad did it. He wouldn't- okay, he might, but he wouldn't before a job. Can't be environmental, others would be struggling. Can't- 

Fuck. That's what I can think, but I'm smart enough not to verbalize it, not that I could verbalize much right now. I can't even think of what this might be. I'm too busy trying to fix it. 

Forming a thought feels like trying to start a fire in the sea, but arson's my middle name. _Breathe_. That's all I have to do. Air in, air out. Can't do it the normal way and can't ask for help. 

I focus on the air. The pressure, the slight breeze from the AC system that kept everyone from sweating like the pigs they are. I focus on the feeling of air traveling down and into my lungs, and then back out. Suddenly I'm not just focusing on it and envisioning it, I'm doing it. I'm breathing without breathing, using semblance to open my throat and keep from suffocating on my own inability to do the most basic thing. 

It works. 

It isn't like breathing, it isn't fixing the problem, but it's keeping me from looking like I'm about to keel over. 

I return to my conversation, and it's harder to talk like this, but I can do it. I can look and present myself like I'm okay. I can fake it until the party dies down, and dad comes to place a hand on my shoulder, saying it's time to head out. 

As I shake the hand of the boy I was talking to, squeezing tight to cover the slight sting of forcing air bubbles into his blood vessels, I say a goodbye and hope taking over his father's company goes well. Shame we can't stick around to see the damage it does later in the night. 

At home, I collapse, finally letting on to just how much I've been struggling. Using semblance for hours on end was exhausting. Not breathing was exhausting. 

"The hell, kid?" 

"I can't. Breathe." 

He doesn't say anything, going to rifle through a drawer. A minute later, I catch an inhaler thrown at my head. 

"You must have your mom's asthma." 

I push the button and inhale deep, eyes pushed shut and tears prickling at their corners. It isn't instant, but I finally get what I need. 

Sweet sweet Oxygen.


End file.
